Heart in the Hand
by Akua
Summary: People break. They heal. And they are stronger for it. But sometimes the breaks aren't clean, and sometimes people can't heal on their own. A single act connects two worlds... With revenge within reach what will be the act that saves? That night at the Ministry went oh so wrong, who is left to collect the pieces left behind?
1. Chapter 1

"Heart in the Hand"

Disclaimer : Not Mine.

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><p>Chapter One: The Hand that Saved<p>

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><p>Harry Potter was fifteen years old. And in a few weeks more, he would be sixteen. Not like it truly mattered much to the British teen anymore. After all, who was counting at this point? Well, besides himself. He didn't think anyone else would be counting. There was no one else to count, or at least no one that was actually important.<p>

Sirius Black had fallen through the veil.

Ron Weasley had succumbed to some poison. His face had been pale and drawn and _dead_.

Hermione Granger had been driven insane by the very same curse that had destroyed Neville's parents.

Neville... well, Neville couldn't go to school anymore. The other boy had lost his legs. He had heard, before Hogwarts had shipped the students out, that Neville's Gran was home schooling him from this point on. But even then, Harry had never seen handicap friendly places within the Wizarding world. He didn't think that was possible. Neville's life might as well be over.

Luna... well, Luna had disappeared.

The only one who had come back alive was Harry. Harry._ Bloody._ Potter.

Harry let his eyes slowly drift up to the dull yellow lamp above his head. The park bench he was sitting on dug in to his rear, but he didn't shift away from it. Because didn't he deserve this pain and suffering? He had been the cause of their... deaths. For they all might as well be dead to him. Even little Luna, who had probably been kidnapped by Death Eaters and... and... and _tortured_.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry hunched forward and buried his hands in his hair. He was such a stupid little boy. And yes, he had to be little. Because what good was he in the world of adults? He had just run in to the Ministry, thinking that he could make a difference. That he had been good enough to save Sirius. He hadn't been good enough; because in the end he had killed Sirius Black. And his actions had the results of even more people dying. From the Order members to his friends. No, he hadn't been good enough to save anyone at all. And he never will be.

Dumbledore's weighty stare burned in to him, even know. After weeks of separation and long after he was out of the old Wizard's sight. Harry had seen those eyes and he knew what the old wizard thought he was.

He was a failure.

He was a failure of a person. He was a failure of a wizard. And most of all, he was a failure of a hero. He couldn't save anyone. He was such a failure that even the Headmaster, who was so good and so kind and so accepting hadn't even been able to look at him once they returned to the school from the Ministry, let alone talk to him. With every particle of his being, Albus Dumbledore had rejected him.

His mind drifted to Ginny Weasley, and he can only feel the numb horror climb again. Because Ginny Weasley had been just as weak to Voldemort's possession as he himself had been. And when the little girl (even smaller and littler then himself) had followed after him when he had chased Bellatrix...

She had fallen when he had fallen. Both of them screaming as the pressure of Voldemort invaded their souls. And when Dumbledore freed them, Harry had curled up, unthinking. He hadn't had the mind to turn and check that Ginny was there.

One _imperio_ by a Death Eater, and little Ginny Weasley was gone.

He hadn't seen any of the other Weasley children... or adults... since that night that had gone oh so terribly wrong. If there was a way for one night to go even more wrong then that one, Harry had no idea how that could be accomplished.

Hogwarts had been hell after he had... returned.

Alone. By himself.

And then the Newspapers...

Harry choked and pressed his face in to his knees, his geeky glasses digging painfully in to his face as he piled his arms on top of his head. He was such an undeserving little braggart, wasn't he? So cocky, so full of himself. Snape had been right about him. That spy had always been so right about him. The other had had the idea, hadn't he? Demean Harry when possible and take him down and off his pedestal.

Obviously, the other hadn't verbally abused him enough. Else Harry wouldn't have thought of himself so mighty to not be afraid of Death Eaters. Or maybe it was just that the last several years since he had entered the Wizarding World he had landed himself in horrible situations after situations that could have lead to certain death. Only, it hadn't. And each scathing situation he had gone through, he had always come out unharmed. With no one hurt.

He should have seen that pattern start to change with Cedric, though.

He hadn't. And look at what had happened?

Everyone was gone. Dead and gone and he was so, so alone.

Harry threw himself off of the bench, his awkward legs nearly buckling as he threw himself forward and stumbled away. The agony was becoming too much for him. This crushing weight of failure was drowning him. And there was obviously no way he could save himself.

And there was no one who would _want_ to save him.

Before it got too much... he had to do it! End his own misery, and the misery of everyone else. Everyone would be happier with him gone (unfortunate that Voldemort was actually on that list as well) and he himself would be in... a better place. Because without anyone here for him, the weight of his sins were crushing. His breath rattled shakily in his thin chest as he fell against his chosen tree and he clutched the rough bark with his weak, clammy hands.

Maybe he should have waited till morning. So that the world wasn't tinged yellow when he died.

That didn't matter, though.

Absently brushing off tree bark that clung to his shirt, Harry moved around the tree, coming to the plastic trash bin he had carried over from the other side of the park. He looked up at the... noose, that hung there on the branch.

He had tried other ways, sure.

He had thought about overdosing on pills. But he hadn't been able to get his hands on any pills. There had been, of course, the idea of taking a blade to his body. He had little spot scars on his arms for the attempt when in the tub. But the pain had been horrible, and he had never gotten far with it.

Even if the motto had been 'down the street, not across the road', Harry hadn't been able to do it.

There had been plenty of poisonous substances in his potions supply. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to work on him. Harry had tried ingesting some household cleaners. That seemed the way to go... and he had suffered, sure. But he hadn't died. The worst stomach pains of his life followed by two weeks of sickness. He had thought he was going to die. But Harry had lived. He had always lived.

Hanging himself wasn't the last resort, but... But it was what he had come up with for this attempt.

Clambering on to the bin, Harry righted himself once he had found his balance on the not-quite-solid trash container. It put him eye to hoop with the noose he had made. He had guessed a lot on how to make it... and had taken the rope from the garage at the Dursley house. It was neon yellow and it matched with the poor lighting.

Harry took a moment and squeezed his eyes shut. He had read horrible things in his history text about hanging. That if he didn't do it right, he'd just suffocate to death. He had to break his neck. Make it quick, make it painless.

... and he'd see all of his family again in heaven.

... or, that was what he wanted. He was probably going to Hell for this, but he couldn't take living anymore!

Lunging forward, Harry caught the noose with both hands and moved to shove his head through the circle. His body was already moving forward, and his momentum would take him through it, no backing out now!

... and the bin under his feet buckled.

Harry shrieked as his feet slid out from underneath him, his upper body being thrown back as he fell, back first on to the harsh green plastic of the bin... and then he tipped over backwards and accidently back flipped off the end of the bin to land heavily on his face in the ground.

And then a heavy tree branch fell on to his back.

Groaning and coughing for air, Harry opened his eyes and looked to his hands... and found that when he had fallen, he hadn't let go of the noose at all and it was clenched tightly around his fingers. Slowly, carefully, he eased his now pained fingers from the trap and then he reached behind himself and shoved the tree branch off. His back ached, and he slowly pushed himself up on to his knees. He groaned again and righted the glasses on his face before he surveyed his surroundings. The bin, the cheap plastic that it was, had crumpled on to itself. And the branch he had tied the noose on had been too small and hadn't supported his weight. Seeing his hastily made (yet planned) attempt fail again made something just crack inside of his head.

The laughter that sprang from his mouth was hysterical. But this was ridiculous.

Harry found himself breathless and unable to stay quiet as he slowly moved on to his feet. Ridiculous, ridiculous.

Ridiculous. Riddiculous._ Riddikulus._

"Ri... Riii... a.. ahha... Riddikulus..." He couldn't stop laughing.

This whole situation was insane. Totally insane. And Harry choked for air and merely laughed again as he sagged on to his feet and pulled himself up with a wooden like quickness. No, no... he definately couldn't take this anymore!

Escaping Dudley had always required skills... certain skills that allowed him to disappear anywhere.

Climbing the tree was insanely hard. Harry was out of practice, and he was laughing himself silly. How could no one hear his ruckus? Ridiculous. Riddikulus...

Giggling, Harry climbed as high as his concentration would allow. Several feet off the ground could work just fine. If he landed on his head. That would be fine. He didn't want to go climb his Primary school and jump from the roof. It was too far from where he was right now. But maybe it's be easier if he did do so. Falling on to the solid, black tar of the play ground was an instant death sentence. Nothing would be able to save him if his brains were splattered across that black patch one hard ground. And most of all he didn't want to be saved.

But he was already in the act of climbing and he didn't dare back up and survey himself once more. He had to finish this, and finish it _now_.

He pulled himself up from the crouch he had on the branch, breathless with giggles. He had climbed fairly high up along the main trunk of the tree and had located a suitable branch that would hold his weight long enough for him to shimmy over to a good falling spot. He was careful as he slowly moved further and further out on to the branch. Careful of the sounds of the tree and careful of where he, himself, went. Because he had to be careful. If he fell wrong then he would live. And above all else, he didn't want that! It took time, concentration and breath that Harry didn't have much of. But he managed, it seemed. For soon he had reached the perfect spot. The perfect spot to reach and the perfect spot to fall from. He threw his arms out like an acrobat, waiting to do his next trick.

It was going to be the last trick he would ever do. For the world at large... and the remainder of the people in it.

Harry snorted, "riddikulus..."

Closed his eyes.

And let himself fall.

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><p>He never hit the ground.<p>

A pair of arms pillowed him shortly after he had let himself go and those arms-thin and strong and there-had carried him back down to the ground. Landing as softly as any bird. But all of these tender mercies were lost on Harry, as the hysteria rose within him once more, like a rotting hand taking hold of his heart. What was there about him that just didn't like him die?

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" Those gentle arms weren't so gentle anymore and Harry soon found the world spinning, his feet on the ground and his shoulders in a crushing grip as he was violently shaken by the person who had caught him (saved him when no one else could, or wanted to) and the surprise itself was enough for Harry to open his eyes.

The world was spinning, and his glasses were missing (when had they fallen? Before or after he had climbed the tree?) and all that he could see were shapes tinged in the yellow of the lamp that was overhead.

As it was, it took a few moments before he could figure out what the person (male, tall, strong) was saying as the other continued to shake him. The accent in his words was thick. But it wasn't British, nor did it sound like the man was from Ireland or the other European countries. There was just a certain lack of syllable to some words that made his head spin. Or maybe that was the shaking. Feebly, Harry reached up to try and paw the iron grip off of his shoulders. But the man's hands wouldn't have it.

The shaking did stop though.

Harry cringed back as the person loomed in, the closeness did not save the man's face from his blurry vision, though. The man (was it really a man? His voice wasn't that deep) took a deep breath, let it out and stated in a slow fashion, "What. The. Fuck. Were. You. Doing. Kid?" Harry believed that he had offended the man, because he had spoken to him like he was a child, and had even called him 'kid'.

It took a slow, long moment where the weight of the other's stare was communicated through feeling, rather then sight and Harry slowly unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. There was a foreign feeling welling up in his belly now, and he didn't really understand what it was. It was familiar to how he had felt during the battle of the Ministry, but at the same time it wasn't the same. "U.. um..." Working his jaw took ages and Harry stumbled around a tongue that felt ten times too big.

The man's fingers tightened even more, and now Harry could feel the other's fingernails digging through his thin shirt.

"D.. dying..." Harry eventually stuttered out, and the fingers loosened enough that Harry could feel the blood start to return to his arms.

He felt that, along with other things. Saying it out loud, to someone else (a stranger) was almost like a sin. "I'm killing myself." The words were slower, but smoother and all the more painful to say. It was just one thing to do it, but actually saying it was like he was breaking some hidden rule of his misery, of his own business and he felt like a small child again, trying to hide behind his Aunt's legs only for her to turn him away from any comfort. The silence of the act was denied to him and the hands were moving.

The hands of the yellow shape that was the man rose and landed on his shoulders and roosted there, tightening down. Harry was startled by the feeling, suddenly his knees were protesting the weight and he fought against the weight to keep his back up so he wasn't pushed to the ground. But he felt grounded all the same, now. He and the feeling of weightlessness couldn't be more further apart then right now.

"Why." The man breathed the statement that demanded an answer.

And Harry answered, because he was grounded. Because there was nothing to lose and there was no one to hide behind or turn to. Because it might as well be a stranger to know what become of Harry Potter.

"Because I'm drowning."

"Drowning?" Was that a frown?

"I'm drowning and there is no one to save me."

Harry felt tired, burnt out... and heavy. And with each passing moment his head slowly lowered as the gravity of the past few weeks took hold. An idle thought went through his memories and he wondered which order members were on watch during his suicide attempts. Fletcher seemed a good suspect for tonight, but then again he didn't know if anyone would want to save him anyway.

"Kid... you don't need to kill yourself. There is so much to live for. I mean, well..." The man stuttered to a hault himself, words thick and slow and foreign, "ah.. like... like... like family! You can't leave your family and friends. You'd have to be some kind of cold hearted bastard for doing that!" The man seemed to think he was brilliant for coming up with that idea.

"My family and friends are dead." Harry distantly heard himself speak, his voice so bland and whisper loud.

The man's hands seemed to falter, to lighten up and for one horrifying minute Harry thought he was going to float away. Instead, the hands tightened and he spoke again, "C'mon... Hell, I mean, isn't there something you have to do... some dream? C'mon, kid, tell me your dream. Just think of it, you want to achieve it, right?" The man had to be grasping at straws or something, and Harry guessed then and there that the man was not from his town, as if the other's thick accent didn't give him away.

"I..." Harry started and trailed off, what was his dream? The man leaned in and Harry grasped around for something as an answer. Anything at all would work. But for some reason he was coming up as empty. Dream after dream had been crushed since he had entered the Wizarding World. At first he wanted to be like his parents. Snape had crushed that one when he found his father to be a bully and a jerk. His mother had been wonderful and smart, but he could never attain her skills. He wanted to be an Auror, but the recent events at the ministry had crushed that, too. He'd never be strong enough for that. He wasn't good enough at fighting for that. He hesitated too much.

He had been living for years off the dreams and wants of other people. Hermione, who had secretly wanted adventure. Ron, who wanted to be rich and famous and strong. Ginny, who wanted a hero. Hogwarts, who needed someone to watch. The Wizarding World, who needed someone to blame.

"I am empty inside." Not that it made anyone bad... but what was there that was 'Harry'?

The hands tightened and Harry, for some reason, searching again to find something to please this man. Because who else was there? And he hadn't felt so connected in such a long, long time. He hadn't talked to someone this long without any threat around for so long. "I..." What did he want to do? Above all else, what did he want to do?

"... I want to kill... a certain man..." Voldemort had to die. Anyone could do it, but Harry realized that he wanted to kill the other. Bring the man to his knees and repent for all that he had done. For his parents, for Ron, Hermione... everyone...

He raised his head against and looked out, the sudden feeling of purpose bringing a tingling feeling to his limbs as his crooked knees straightened and he felt something inside of himself click. He had never seen himself as someone who would hurt other people. There were rules and laws that kept the world at peace. Who was he to disrupt something like that for something petty like revenge? Of course, revenge wasn't petty anymore, and it was more then that.

The last few weeks felt like bad memories and dreams as something new a heavy became a weight in his chest. Purpose.

"H. .hey..." The man stuttered and his hands loosened and slipped. He held on to Harry's elbows, but Harry didn't need the other to ground him anymore and Harry felt his face move, and realized belatedly that he was smiling. "Hey, that's not a very nice dream. I mean... _shit._.." There was weakness and sternness in the other's voice now.

Those hands were rough against the soft skin of his elbow, and Harry could feel that the long digits easily wrapped around his skinny arms and then some. They felt slender and rough but at the same time wide and gentle. Kind of like the other's rough language contradicted the soothing manner that he spoke in.

"Hey... kid, don't cry. I mean, H.. hey..."

Harry hadn't realized he was crying until he reached up and touched his face with his skinny, bony fingers. It was wet, how long had the tears been going?

"I mean, you don't need to live to kill someone. Living is for something else. Revenge won't lead to anything. You'll just... you'll just hate and hate and when it gets down to it, what'll you do afterward? I mean, you shouldn't focus on that. Just... you need to set down new roots, like a tree! Find new water.. ah, I mean, new friends. New people to be your family. It's not hard, you look like a good kid..." The man trailed off as Harry shook his head.

He couldn't become a moving tree. "No.. .there aren't any new people for me. Not yet. I..." He wanted to live now, and that feeling equaled in just how much he wanted to kill Voldemort. Hurry and do it before someone else did.

Harry rubbed at his face and took a step back form the other, and the hands let him go.

"I have something to do now... thank you." Harry said, and the man stood there wordlessly, watching him. Harry turned away and started the long task of finding his glasses. Surprisingly, he found them within a few moments of wandering.

When he looked back, the man was gone.

But the feeling remained.

_He had been Saved._

Purpose. 

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><p><strong>AN :** ... well, I'm not dead. And yes, I did wait till the end of the chapter to state that. I'm not dead and my brain is scattered. I have trouble focusing on my ideas for fanfiction and I have little chapters of just about everything laying about. I'm engrossed in school, burnt out and uninspired for the most part. I love fanfiction, believe you me, but for some reason even reading some of the stuff isn't enough to get me in to the writing mood. As it is, I'm having trouble. Not enough time to Re-Read Lord of the Rings has put a temporary hold to 'At Rest'. I am not up to date with Naruto, or any manga in particular. I started Spring Semester and haven't recovered yet. I still have a month left before that ends and my grades are horrid. I'm just so damn tired all the time, even when I sleep for 8 to 10 hours... Ah, well, this wasn't meant to be a rant. I just want to say that Fanfiction isn't a priority to me. I do it because I enjoy it for the most part. Even then I have trouble sharing what I write. I need one of those beata people or something...

Anyway. Thank you everyone for being patient with me. For reviewing and reading and watching me. I'm sorry that I'm just having so many problems with writing. I never give things up, but it'll probably all take so much time... Happy Late Easter, everyone. Thank you once again.

... and if any of you are fluent in the ways of_ House M.D._ and_ Full Metal Alchemist_... send me a message? I have a one-shot that needs to be done and I need help organizing it. I'm getting nowhere with it...


	2. Chapter 2

Heart In the Hand

Chapter 2: The Hand that Gave

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><p>Harry knew that the first step to Revenge was through knowledge. He really knew nothing of anything. About magic, people and the Wizarding World... or even the Muggle one. The events with the Ministry and the Yellow-Light-Man (as Harry thought of him in his head, while also thinking that he needed to create a far better name for the other) had really opened his eyes to his ignorance of everything. It was something he would have to change if he ever wanted to make use of this new enlightenment.<p>

He wasn't the smartest or the brightest person around... but he worked hard, and that had to count for something. So he would work hard on this and rectify his ignorance. It was easy, really. The library may have been some ways away but it was easy access and it didn't require Muggle money (which he didn't have). Although the lack of muggle money was yet another thing to rectify when he got the chance to, it wasn't his biggest concern at the moment when he had other options. There was a lot of time between now and the end of the summer and the next year at school. It'd be his sixth year at Hogwarts.

… if he was even going back. Harry didn't think he could do it.

Harry cleared his head with a thick shake of it and focused on the shelves of the public library that he was browsing around in. He'd check out a few books for recreational learning to go along with reviewing his textbooks. He had already nicked Dudley's unused notebooks from his schooling along with the shiny and new looking library card that Dudley had probably gotten ages ago and never ever used. Harry figured he was good to go. All he needed to do was get things to become smarter… stronger.

_He no longer had Hermione to do his reading for him._

_And there was no longer Ron to do his strategy for him._

_No Neville to…_

Harry shook his head again. Clearing the black thoughts away from himself.

There must be some kind of University nearby or within a reasonable distance, because Harry breezed by some official looking texts that he was sure that he wouldn't understand. He would have to start from the bottom up or else it would be pointless. He picked up a book on basic nutrition (he refused to stay this small, skinny and weak and he just knew that this would solve his none knowledge to nutrition other than to shove food down his throat until he was no longer skinny… which didn't actually work as well as one would think), a book on history (for Muggles, he vaguely remembered some fantastical things that occurred even through the short page through of it before he selected a brief overview), and some... Psychology introduction books. Psychiatrist and Psychology were similar words right. He couldn't pay someone to hear his problems so a book would have to due for him. No one to talk to... he may have to invest in another outlet. Bottling things up again may lead back to his half assed suicide attempts again.

He couldn't afford to revert to what he had been and what he had been doing only a short little bit ago. He couldn't do that again because it would get in the way of the plans that he had. He had big things to do now. He couldn't waste himself away anymore. Not when he could slave over this and reach his eventual goal of satisfaction.

He checked out his books and carried them in his arms back to Number 4.

His arms burned by the time he got home.

He met his Aunt in the kitchen. She looked at him once before breezily leaving the room.

She hadn't talked to him or really looked at him since she had discovered his failed attempts at slitting his wrists. She refused to even look him in his general direction now. But she hadn't assigned him any chores and she had probably talked to his Uncle about it, who was also avoiding him too. Dudley had started avoiding him since the previous summer so there wasn't much contact between him and his relatives anymore. Apparently their only way of dealing with the suicidal was to ignore their existence entirely. If Harry hadn't met that man in the park… who knows what he would have done.

He made a simple sandwich in the now empty kitchen and then spirited away to his room with his books and small form of sustenance.

He had spent the day before (the day after the Yellow-Light-Man) cleaning up his room and situating his learning 'floor'. He had lined up all his textbooks against the wall across from his bed. He had thrown out all of his old, illegible essays and kept his homework assignments in his trunk. Homework wasn't really important anymore (especially since he didn't know if he should bother with going back at all). He just needed to learn, and wasn't going to distract himself with something as pointless as 'feather light charms and their use on muggle devices'. It might be useful in the future, but he was working from the bottom up.

Harry took a seat in front of his bed after closing the door. He slowly worked on his sandwich as he spread out the books he had picked up. He shuffled them around as he ate with one hand, and placed the books in a pile of order of how he'd read them. He'd read these books as he reviewed his First Year textbooks. He'd get some new ones in a few weeks or so. He'd start with Nutrition. The state of his body was ridiculous.

_...riddikulus..._

He successfully fought down the rising hysteria and made himself busy.

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><p>Over the next few weeks he focused more on nutrition and body focused books. He was in over his head in Psychology and he just stopped that effort before really getting in to it. From what he had seen of the Wizarding World there wasn't much focus on mental health and Skinner cats or whatever. More than a few witches and wizards were a few marbles loose for who knew what reason. Harry didn't expect to live that long anyway, what did he need to worry about mental health in his 30s when he didn't even expect to reach his 20s?<p>

When he focused on learning the ache inside of himself wasn't so bad, so he figured that he'd be okay as he was. Instead, he threw himself in to learning useful things. He used the nicked notebooks a la Dudley to divide his spell lists up in to 'attack', 'defense' and 'useful others'. Very few bits of Charms that he knew made those lists. And transfiguration wasn't that great either.

He had to wait till he got to Hogwarts before he could change that (if he was even going… other than Hogwarts he should probably just hit up a bookstore..).

When finished his readings after a few weeks of study he shoved his old schoolbooks under the floorboards under his bed and removed all the items he had hidden there before. There was no hidden food there anymore as he had been partaking of the Dursley's food this time around and they had yet, even after several weeks, to really even acknowledged that he existed.

Sometimes Harry just wanted to scream and scream until one of them came and made him stop.

At least he would know if he existed if he did that.

He wasn't sure if the Dursley_ SILENCE_ helped or hurt him anymore. He was focused on other things.

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><p>Weekly letters were sent to the Order as was the protocol. Remus Lupin had assured him that he had bought all the textbooks Harry would need for this year during a rare and too thin letter that had been sent. He had no news to or from the order and what they were doing. No news on anything, really. But then again, the only news that Harry wanted to know of was Voldemort and certainly someone would send him a letter if the other had died. Which was impossible because of the PROPHECY—the one that predicted the end. And since no such letter had arrived, Harry was just going to assume that no such thing had happened yet. That there was still time for him to learn more, to get better...<p>

As it was, his learning wasn't the greatest thing that had ever happened. Harry had never been the brightest candle in the closet. The sharpest tool in the shed. That had been Hermione. And as he spent hours and hours forcing himself to read and comprehend and content; as he did so, he wished with a new kind of desperation that Hermione was there at his side. Especially when he had to go back pages or chapters and read all over again—his reading was so painfully so he wished and wished that someone was there with him to make it easier. But no, she was at St. Mungos now.

And that was that.

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><p>The Nutrition book disappeared for a week. Harry had panicked because he wouldn't be able to pay the library for the book without asking for assistance from his relatives. He didn't think he could make it to Diagon Alley to pull out money without being caught by someone, after all. Specifically his minders that watched his house.<p>

But it showed up after a week, in the laundry room. With many of the pages ruffled.

... and Harry soon noticed that the meals of the Dursley household had... changed a little, in accordance with what he had read.

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><p>Exercise didn't come too hard. Harry had been running for his life ever since he was born, after all.<p>

It didn't hurt that one day a bunch of papers appeared inside of one of his shoes at the front door. A lot of papers that were rolled up in tight and kept in a rolled fashion via a rubber band—Harry had discovered them when he had glanced by the mud room area of the front door and saw that one of his dirty old trainers had had papers near spitting out of it. The sheer whiteness of it had contrasted against the dirty grey of the shoes.

Inside of it has been a gold mine. All of it was carefully typed instructions and pictures and diagrams. It was an exercise schedule. Harry had really just been running and doing what the papers explained as 'cardio'. It helped his endurance, yes… but not his muscle tone and strength.

This exercise regime was supposed to make him strong.

Harry didn't know if it was his aunt yet again showing that she had a heart, but he accepted it. And if some of the explanations were worded oddly, he didn't complain.

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><p>It was two weeks before term when the... letter arrived. The owl (foreign and brown and strange and Hedwig fluffed her wings up moodily at the stranger) had come and had sat at his sill and had waited for a reply while Harry lost himself in staring at the letter for a time. The letter were rather elegant looking in and of itself with rich textures to it that spoke of money and cost.<p>

Harry was lost because he was lost about thinking up a 'who' who would write to him.

But... if the Order had allowed it in then it must be safe.

... but all the same, Harry grabbed some thick gloves from his potions items and used one of his chopping knives to clumsily slit open the wax seal of letter. He held his breath while he shook out the contents of the letter on to his bed. No mysterious powder or anything came out with it. With the handle of his knife he prodded the parchment papers before he deemed them safe enough to pick up. And even though they seemed to be relatively safe Harry picked the parchment pieces up with his gloves.

He brought the letter to eye level... and started to read.

Oh... oh _Neville_...

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><p>The next morning, a strange set of knives appeared on the desk of his room. They were black matte with no handle. They were heavy and cold and horribly sharp within his hands. They had come with a simple letter and a large piece of paper with a painted bull's eye drawn on it. The note they had come with had simply said, 'try throwing' in typed letters on thin, cheap printer paper.<p>

It was three days before the start of Hogwarts term. Harry could feel the rising panic of the thought of returning back to Hogwarts. The panic of not-being-the-same. His friends were gone and he was no longer the same. Because he knew there was a MONSTER in the streets that was gunning for him. And there was a MONSTER in his head that was screaming for blood.

He had pinned that bull's-eye to his dresser door by its top corners with some of those knives he had been given. The knifes sunk through the wood easily. Like melting butter. Harry had been throwing those knives every day. It had had horrible scratches and stinging cuts from it, but most of the time he sunk the knife in to something now instead of making the blunt loop on the end create an indent or hole in something.

The exercises he had done had made him stronger. _Hungrier._

Harry was hungry for many things.

And maybe his Aunt could see that in him now. She always remained a cautious distance away from him now. As if he was something… something,

He had no words for it.

But despite the fact that he was getting stronger, Harry still had a roaring PANIC in his veins and a tremble in his hands when he thought about Hogwarts and everything that could go wrong. He no longer wanted to go to a school to learn magic anymore.

He wanted to go to a school to learn to kill Voldemort.

Magic would just be a bonus, at this point.

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><p>Neville's letter had been pain and anger and a wailing plea all wrapped in to one that had left Harry shaken for days even though he had decided shortly after reading that he would comply with Neville's request. Because Harry ached for the other in places that had been hallow since that horrible night in the Ministry of Magic.<p>

Harry was going to Neville's house.

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><p>Harry had gotten the necessary portkey from Neville after he had sent his reply. On the third day before term started, it activated. Harry brought nothing but his wand and cloak and money bag. It was a simple day visit that was planned and there would be a return portkey that would bring him back when they were done with their discussion.<p>

Of course, when the sixteen year old had arrived at his destination he toppled to the floor in a breathless heap and laid there for a second before he sat up. Of course once he sat up he realized that he was not alone in his landing area. Harry was sprawled out on the floor in front of someone who could only be Neville's grandmum.

She did not look like the Bogart Snape. Even the clothes were different. Her face was lined. Deep cervices that cut in to her flesh and cast dark shadows everywhere. Her face was smooth only in the idea that she held no expression as she stared down at Harry. Slightly bent forward, fingers curled with age. She wore black and only black. She seemed to meld in to the shadows of the room that they were in. Like an extension of darkness.

Death with a pale face.

Harry stared up at her face and felt judged.

Not a word was said between them, she only blinked down at him before slowly turning and melting away in to the darkness. Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes and listened to the cackle of the fireplace that was behind himself sing merrily. But the fire didn't made the chill of the house any better. Harry felt frozen where he was sprawled on the tiled floor. After a while Harry opened his eyes and got to his feet.

He was in a musty old day room of some sort. The windows were all black and not a hint of natural light remained. There was furniture that had tarps and other plastic things covering them and there was just dust everywhere. The whole room smelled of age. Of age and not-letting-go.

The fire went out—and it knocked Harry out of his stupor. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness. And it didn't take but a moment to realize that he wasn't in pitch darkness, because there was an outline of a heavy door off to the side with light coming in through the cracks of it. Harry shuffled along to the door, keeping slow so as to avoid falling over some dark thing in his path.

Harry could swear he heard laughing in the dark.

_… but he wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not._

He moment of fumbling and he got the handle of the door within his sweaty hands. Harry shut his eyes tightly, pushed down on the handle and then pushed against the door. The door gave off a low, pained groan as he slowly pushed it open. The light felt hot on his face and he knew that if he had kept his eyes opened he would have cried a few tears at the intense pain of light after so much dark.

Harry slid out from the gap he had made in the door to the wall and he gently shut the door behind himself. After a moment of adjusting Harry opened his eyes and squinted against the light. It was so warm out here compared to the frozen cold of that room. The summer heat swam in waves against his body and warmed him right up. Easily fighting off his chills and starting a light layer of sweat on his body. Harry shook out his body as he eyed the large, beautiful sitting room he had entered. The walls were a pale blue and the furniture was all off-white with wooden accents. There were moving portraits on the walls and vases and pots of all kinds of exotic and not so exotic flowers.

There were doors open that led to a patio. The stone of the patio was white washed against the summer light. There were chairs and a table set outside.

But most important was Neville, sitting out there in the light of the sun.

Harry felt drawn to the doorway that led outside, but he lingered there in the last of the shade as he watched Neville. Neville in his chair with his head thrown back and his eyes shut. His body was limp in his comfortable chair. His body was tan from the amount of sun he had been getter. Neville had lost his baby fat, only the lean face of an adult remained behind.

On the table at his side was his wand, a book and some sandwiches.

There was a chair across from Neville.

Harry was almost hesitant to step in to the sunlight. He had been inside a lot for the summer. Practically the whole summer. He had only gotten whiter over the last two or so months and the indirect light of the sun felt hot to him. Harry was afraid of getting a nasty sun burn.

But that was his problem.

Neville's problem was hidden by the sewn off edges of his pants.

Harry stepped out in to the light. The light dragging of his trainers seemed to catch in Neville's ears because he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Harry. Neville's eyes had always been deep set and boyish. But now the other just looked terribly old and terribly sad. Harry almost paused when they locked eyes but he continued on his way and let himself drop in to the chair that had been left there.

Neville watched him for a time, searching Harry's face for something. Neville must have found it because he looked away and slowly eased himself in to a proper sit up.

The silence lasted for a short bit before Harry spoke up. "Neville… I don't understand, why can't the Healers at Mungo's just.. just grown you some new…" He trailed off and vaguely motioned to Neville's stumps. One ending right above the knee, the other one mid-way up the thigh. Harry didn't know what had caused the cuts but is had been done at an even diagonal line.

Harry was barely keeping the crawling SCREAM from appearing and he clutched at the arms of his chair as his voice spilled forth. "I mean… after that incident with Lockheart… they grew my arm back.. I don't…" His voice cracked a little. Little would Harry know that that would be the last crack of his teenage life.

Neville's eyes fluttered shut as his hands reached out and ghosted in the air above his legs before he serenely settled his hands on the arms of his chairs. His fingers curling in to gentle fists as his eyes remained shut. His voice was smooth, even and strong when he started to speak. Nothing like Harry's choking stumble. "Well… that's the thing with Healing magic, I suppose. Works better with potions because the body ingests it and makes it become a part of it. But I can't just take some Skele-Grow, Harry. There are all the other parts that are missing too. There are blood replenishes and muscle strengtheners… But muscle, tissue and tendon damage is normally resolved by direct magic healing because of the complexity. No one has developed a potion for those things yet…" The that that the world was too busy with war was a fact that went unsaid.

Neville opened his eyes and watched his legs for a moment before they raised and locked with Harry's once more. "A Healer's magic is still foreign magic. And magic… my magic saturates my body. The Healer's magic will become part of the new flesh and muscle and tissues… In all the times that they tried to fully regrow a missing limb… the rest of the body normally rejects the new limp as it belongs to too much of someone else. Even re-growing so much as a full hand was met with… unmentionable side effects." Neville's left hand drifted and reached out, trailed along the near full thigh that he still had.

"Theoretically, if someone was to regrow their own leg then there wouldn't be so much of a problem. But the pain to do so… is…" Neville paused before he just shook his head and let the sentence die.

His lips quirked in to something that was ironic and pained. "Its not so bad, I suppose." He shrugged his shoulder and turned his head to look off in to the distance.

Harry could help but follow his example. He turned his head and looked over to the large yard that the other hard. It seemed to stretch on for an age before becoming forest in the distance. There was a large greenhouse nearby to them and a quick glance showed that this house was rather huge. Probably some type of mansion.

Without looking at Neville, Harry started to stumble through his next set of words even as he felt the steady pressure of a hand over his heart. The thin layer of sweat he had gained had become not so thin at this point. "Neville… Neville I am so sorry.. I didn't mean for this to happen at all. I don't… I don't know what to do to make it better." Harry rambled, his nails digging in to the plush softness of the arm rests. Harry swallowed around his dry throat and tongue before he opened his mouth to try and continue.

Neville didn't let that happen, though.

A murmur of words and Harry yelped as a sting bit in to the flesh of his arms. He drew them in close to his body and stared at Neville with wide eyes as the other held his wand loosely and in Harry's general direction.

Time slowed down. Harry's head was screaming that Neville was a—

_THREAT. THREAT. THREAT._

—going to hurt him but the shock of having Neville point his wand at him kept Harry still enough to see Neville's calm face crumble.

"I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE SORRY, HARRY POTTER! I don't… I don't need that!" Neville's voice and breathing was ragged even as he dropped his wand back on to the table and leaned forward like an old, old man and buried his face in his hands.

Neville's voice was just a few breaths away from a scream. _"I just need it to have not been a waste!"_

And he cried. Huge, muffled sobs that made him choke on air as he gently rocked himself back and forth. Fighting for air so that he could express his pain all the more—Neville's serenity was long since gone and Harry recognized that serenity as a thin shell to try and put a stop to all that Neville had been feeling before. Harry slowly drew himself up to his feet. He shifted on his feet for a moment before he drew close to the other.

Did Neville need comfort? Harry didn't know what to do… but he wanted to do something for the other.

Before he got too close, Neville choked. "S-stop. Just… go back inside… g-give me a minute…" He fought for his calm. Breathing in through his nose to try and make his own shaking stop.

Harry could feel the layer of sweat on his own face. His body felt sticky and too hot and there was the SCREAM in his own head that envied Neville's ability to cry. Harry slowly took a step back from the other. Staying silent as Neville lost the battle with himself and cried fast and hard.

Harry took another step.

"It.. it wasn't a waste, Neville." Harry choked out.

Neville didn't hear it amongst his tears.

Which was good, Harry thought as he slowly slid black in to the house and took a numb seat on one of the small couches inside. It was good, because Neville deserved something better than his lies.

Because it had been a waste. All of those lives had been a waste.

Because they had been children. And what they had done, had done nothing.

Harry buried his dry face in to his hot hands and wished bitterly that he hadn't left that dark room. That he had stayed in there till the return Portkey had taken him home. It would have been better than sitting inside and listening to Neville cry in the light.


End file.
